Branches
by Razzaroo
Summary: "I am going home and you're coming with me; your education's been sorely neglected." Contrary to one Mark Blackthorn's preconceptions, there's more to being a Hunter than riding the wind and ferrying souls.
1. Prologue

_There often by him he would see,  
when noon was hot on leaf and tree,  
the king of Faerie with his rout  
came hunting in the woods about,  
with blowing far and crying dim,  
and barking hounds that were with him;  
yet never a beast they took nor slew,_

_and where they went he never knew._

—_from__**Sir Orfeo**__, as translated by__J. R. R. Tolkien_

* * *

When not leading the Wild Hunt across a thundering sky, Gwyn ap Nudd was a quiet faery. Mark watched him through the antlers of the stag he'd been given, hunching over the animal's neck to avoid the sharp points. It felt almost like Gwyn had forgotten his presence; he certainly hadn't noticed as the rest of the Hunt peeled away from him. When Mark glanced back, all he saw were coiling clouds of white.

He cleared his throat, "Where are y-...Where are we going?"

Gwyn drew his horse to a stop and it whisked its tail. The stag stopped as well, its head tipped back, and Mark shrank lower away from the antlers. Gwyn rolled his eyes and gently tugged the stag forward so it was level with his horse.

"You need to stop being afraid of him," Gwyn said, leaning down to gently stroke the stag's nose, "If you ride with the Hunt, you can't be afraid of your mount." He glanced up to meet Mark's mismatched eyes with his own, "You'd do well to name him."

Mark ran a hand down the stag's neck, "Well, excuse me for not wanting to be blinded."

"You're excused," Gwyn straightened up, "But he won't blind you. Learn to trust him. And give him a name." His lip curled, "And don't name him the same as you'd name one of your seraph blades. Shadowhunters are so uncreative in matters as important as naming."

He nudged his horse on again and it picked up its coppery hooves in a way that was almost dainty, continuing up the hill with the assurance and confidence of an animal that had done it many times before. The rope between Gwyn and the stag stretched tighter, the stag waiting patiently for Mark to urge it onwards. Mark sighed and gathered up the thin reins and squeezed the stag's sides with his calves. Its body was so much narrower than the horses he'd grown up riding and it was still unsettling; the idea that he'd slip off because there was nothing to support him lurked in the back of his mind.

"You forget I'm part Shadowhunter," he called out, the rope slackening. He tapped his marks, "A whipping and a gold eye won't change that."

"Oh, but it was more than a whipping, wasn't it boy," Gwyn said, "Enough to have you renounce your family, accept my apples. I will say, I do prefer this version of you to the sulking teenager I was given."

"I was not sulking!" Mark protested hotly, urging the stag to spring forward alongside the black horse "My family had just been murdered. How would you feel?"

He almost instantly regretted it. Gwyn gave him a sideways glance, "Death happens. It happens to Shadowhunters especially, I've noticed."

"I thought you didn't go near where Shadowhunters died."

"You know, Shadowhunters have a nasty tendency for killing people, yes? And sometimes they die whilst they do that? Gwyn snorted, "I don't take all souls but sometimes, Shadowhunters happen to be where I do."

Mark felt a hot anger rise up his neck but he steered the conversation into a different direction, wanting to avoid irritating Gwyn if he could, "You haven't told me where we're going."

"Y Mynyddoedd Duon."

"Come again?"

Gwyn heaved a sigh, "The Black Mountains. I am going home and you're coming with me; your education's been sorely neglected. Latin indeed."

"What would you have me speak?"

"Welsh. Or Gaelic."

"We don't learn Welsh."

"You ought to read up your own family tree in more detail."

From the look on the faery's face, Mark sensed that the conversation was over. He pulled the stag back into step behind Gwyn's horse again. There was still hot frustration simmering under his skin and he found himself smoothing down the soft fur along the stag's neck. Catching sight of the angry scars on his arm made him bite down on his lip, his hand curling into a fist in the stag's fur. The animal snorted and he realised that his other hand was pulling the reins tight, pulling the stag's head uncomfortably high.

"Sorry," he murmured. He was churning over the suggestion to name the stag over in his head, pondering what to call it. While the names of angels were out of the question, he was grappling with the idea of naming it after one of his brothers.

The stag simply lowered its head, its nose trailing at Gwyn's horse's tail. The way its back sloped made Mark cling to the animal's neck; images of him sliding off the stag's rump and toppling back down the hill flashed through his mind.

"Ah, boy," Gwyn's voice startled Mark back out of his thoughts, "Remind me again. What's your name?"

"Mark."

"_March_," Gwyn rolled it over his tongue, "King Mark. Mark of Kernow." When he turned back, there was a sly smile on his mouth.

"Mark Antony, actually," Mark retorted, "After the Roman."

Gwyn waved a hand, "I didn't know any Mark Antony. I know King Mark of Kernow."

They stopped on the other side of the hill, overlooking rolling English fields and tiny farms; they looked like toys, with sheep and cows dotting the velvet fields. Gwyn beckoned for Mark to join him on an old wooden bench, an arrow in his hands.

"You see over there?" he said, voice like the wind. He pointed with his arrow towards the horizon, "_Those_ are the Black Mountains."

Mark could make out the rough shape of them and his heart sank, "They're that far away?"

"Yes."

"So where are we now?"

Gwyn kicked the ground, "This used to be an old fort, before the Roman invaders came. I don't much care what mortals call it now."

They were sat on a ridge on the side of the hill. It was a strangely lumpy slope; it made Mark think of a wedding cake. The ridges resembled steps wrapped around a dome, the earth falling into ditches and rising again in banks up to the peak. The stag and the horse grazed nearby; Gwyn nodded towards them.

"Have you named him yet?"

"No," Mark folded his arms, "What's yours called?"

"Du y Moroedd," Gwyn replied, plucking a blade of grass and chewing on the end, "We've run together for a long time."

"He'll have a name," Mark said, pushing his hair away from his face, "But I want it to feel right; it can't be one I pick because I feel sentimental or angry or whatever. Like you said, names are important."

Gwyn's mouth unfurled into a slow grin, "Now you're thinking like a faery."

* * *

**A/N. Yes, hello. This is my first Mortal Instruments fic and what do I do? Write about minor characters who won't be getting page time until the Dark Artifices. I make excellent choices with my life. Anyway, if all goes to plan, this will end up including figures from Celtic mythology, especially Welsh, and maybe touching on some more general European stuff as well. Though I have to wait on a copy of the **_**The**_ **_Mabinogion _so I might not update for a little bit.**


	2. A Name and A Bow

**A/N. A sort of continuation from the first bit. And then on to other stuff.**

* * *

"What about Telephus?" Mark mused, "He was Hercules's son, you know."

The stag flicked an ear at him. It had barely left his side the whole time he'd been here, following him around the soft hills and elegant halls of Annwn. Mark leant against the animal's warm side and he felt its ribs expand in a heavy sigh; it laid its head on the grass and peered up at him with an eye as dark as the night sky, sprinkled with stars. Mark set down the book that he'd taken from Gwyn's rooms and gave the stag's nose a gentle scratch.

"And Actaeon's no good," he said, "Considering what happened to him."

He looked down at the thin pages in his lap, absently flicking through them. Very few of the names in these accounts were familiar to him; he could rattle off the names of countless demons and every angel known to man but these were new.

"Herne?" he said, "For Herne the Hunter."

"I'll have you know, Herne the Hunter is a friend of mine," Gwyn said drily, his voice seemingly coming from nowhere. Mark turned to see the tall faery behind him, dressed in his armour of interlocking leaves, antlered helmet under one arm; in the crook of the other, he was carrying something long, wrapped in rough cloth. His pale eye gleamed, "A fair name, though perhaps not the best fit."

Mark tensed but Gwyn didn't look angry at him for taking the book. There was a faint look of amusement on the faery's face.

"A gift," Gwyn said, stepping up and dropping the bundle into Mark's lap, "From me to you."

The folds of cloth fell away to reveal a recurve bow and a quiver of dark-tipped arrows. Mark slid one of the arrows out of the quiver and examined it, turning it over in his hands. The fletchings were white and the arrowhead gleamed silver.

"A Huntsman has no better friends than his arrows and his bow," Gwyn said. He stooped to gather up the cloth, "Stand."

Mark set the bow and book aside before he stood. Gwyn shook out the cloth and draped it over Mark's shoulders, fastening it at the throat and pulling up the hood.

"Now you look more the part," Gwyn said, picking up his helmet where he'd dropped it. He nodded toward the stag, "Have him saddled and ready to go within the hour; we ride at moonrise."

He turned on his heel, donning his helmet. Mark glanced down at the stag before watching Gwyn's retreating back.

"You know, in a world of constant noon, it's impossible to know how much time passes!" he shouted, whilst the stag climbed to its hooves. Gwyn just waved his hand dismissively.

Mark felt his shoulders slump. The stag nuzzled at his cheek and he reached up to scratch the spot behind its ear. The cloak felt heavy on his shoulders and it smelled like the air before a rainstorm.

"You're not so bad though, are you?" he said quietly, "Just…don't lick me, all right?"

He crouched down to gather up the bow and arrows. Catching sight of the page the book had fallen open to, he froze. Soft, grass-sweet breath ghosted over his cheek as the stag bent its head down.

"Yeah," he said, tracing the antlers that bordered the page, "I like it too."

He picked up the quiver and strapped it to his waist before slinging the bow over his back and tucking the book under his arm. When he stood, the stag inclined its head and he took hold of one of its antlers, using it as leverage to get on the animal's back.

"Put the book back first. And then we'll guess the time."

* * *

Riding with the Wild Hunt was the most exhilarating experience of Mark's life. The first time, it had been terrifying, balanced precariously in front of Gwyn ap Nudd, clinging on to a mess of black mane for dear life.

Now, with his own mount, he thrilled in it. The wind was icy against his face and swept his hood back, roaring in his head, and his stomach swooped when he looked down to see the ground beneath him in patches of black and moonlit silver. The air thundered with the sound of hooves, sang with the baying of hounds. Beneath him, he could feel every muscle in the stag's body pushing its powerful gallop.

"Ay, Margh!" there was a tug on his cloak and Steren rode up alongside him, her hounds' eyes glowing, her cloud of starlit hair streaming behind her, "Look, we're over Idris!"

Mark looked down only to see the bulk of a mountain, the reflection of the night sky gleaming in the rippling water of a lake; the rock seemed to curve around the water, standing in jagged peaks at its sides. The mountain stretched out behind and in front. Gwyn raised a hand and gestured to descend. Steren cackled and Mark scowled, even as his stomach lurched up into his throat as the stag leapt down to follow Du y Moroedd.

Cadair Idris. Important to Shadowhunter history but hardly his homeland.

Mark spurred the stag onward. Water splashed up in a flurry of white crystals as the Hunt charged over it.

Gwyn gave him a sideways glance, "Named him yet?"

"Yes," Mark frowned, "Cadair Idris? _Idris_?"

"Idris Gawr sat here and studied the stars long before Jonathan Shadowhunter was a twinkle in his mother's eye," Gwyn retorted, "And it's been my favourite hunting ground for even longer. Name?"

Mark took one hand from the reins to rub the stag's neck, "Cernunnos."

"Fitting," Gwyn said, grinning. He tipped his head back and laughed, a raucous howling sound that the rest of the Hunt echoed, a sound that sang through the mountains on the wind.


	3. Black Annis

**A/N. So, while Black Annis isn't what I would call obscure (she has a wiki page, after all) she's not well known enough that I could find any quotes for her. She has a little section in Katherine Briggs' "Dictionary of Fairies" as well, which is a nice place to do some reading on British faeries. **

* * *

There were skins stretched out on the rack underneath the oak tree. Mark stared in morbid fascination as a fly crawled over one of them, as the light that filtered between the oak leaves danced dappled patterns over them. The air smelled of wood smoke, a thin wisp coming from the cave.

"Would you hurry up and come in, boy?" Black Annis wheezed from inside the cave, "You shouldn't lurk in entrance ways; it's _rude." _

"Says a lot about his upbringing, no?" Gwyn said and the pair of them laughed.

Mark shouldered his bow and stepped into the cave. The stone floor was cold against his bare feet and the sudden lack of warmth from the sun made him shudder. The inside of the cave was threadbare in terms of furniture but what little there was looked just as morbid as the skins outside: a chair built from bones and a bed to match, the posts topped with sheep skulls; a shelf where a small human skull looked down at the inhabitants; a rug woven from human hair.

Black Annis squatted near her small fire pit in the centre, poking at it. An old copper pot boiled over it, the contents dark and smelling of copper. Annis's iron claws scraped on the ground as she tapped the stone floor alongside her.

"Sit here, boy," she said, voice raspy, "Let me look at you."

Mark looked to Gwyn with a raised eyebrow but Gwyn just shrugged. His posture was easy and relaxed, as if he and Black Annis were old friends. Annis set out three dented tin cups as Mark folded his legs underneath him and settled on the cave floor. Almost immediately, Annis gripped his jaw, turning his face towards her. The iron of her talons was like ice and burnt just as badly.

"Hmm," she said, reaching up to his right eye, holding the eyelid open to examine the gold iris, "I didn't think he was your kind, Gwyn ap Nudd."

"He was a gift," Gwyn replied, "A gesture of good will from the New York Queen."

"Pah!" Annis let go of Mark's jaw and spat into her fire, "Pretender, you mean. She doesn't hold a candle to our Maeve." She raked a hand through her thin hair, "Why is she giving you gifts of Nephilim boys?"

"She wanted a favour," Gwyn said, "She's hardly the first."

"Arthur is more than she'll ever be."

"Perhaps. But it was interesting all the same."

The kettle was starting to whistle and Annis turned her attention to that, stirring the dark tea with an old spoon. She poured the tea out into the tin cups.

"So then," she said, "Which Shadowhunter family are you from? The ones who wanted to destroy those not like them? The one who made history in Gwyn ap Nudd's favourite mountain?"

"The Herondales," Gwyn interjected, "I remember him."

"Blackthorn," Mark said, accepting the cup she pressed towards him, "I'm Mark Blackthorn."

"Herondale, Blackthorn, they're all the same in the end," Annis said, "As old as we are, it becomes useless trying to separate all of you; you all blend together in time."

The stink of copper rose from the up in waves of steam and Mark glanced towards Gwyn to see if he'd noticed; if he had, the faery didn't give anything away, accepting his own cup and taking a long drink from it without even a flicker. Nose wrinkling at the smell, Mark took a hesitant sip.

The metallic, sickly taste of blood flooded his mouth and he gagged, dropping the cup so its contents sizzled on the fire. Gwyn looked at him in mild amusement.

"A new blend, Annis?" he asked politely, thumping Mark on the back.

Black Annis looked into her kettle, "It's the same." She looked up at Mark with a creeping smile, "Can't handle a bit of lamb's blood, my boy? There are mortals with more mettle than you."

Something complained in Mark's stomach but he lifted his head. He swiped the back of his hand across his mouth and it came away streaked with dark red tea.

"Why have you asked me here, Annis?" Gwyn asked, finishing off his own tea, "Angry ghosts keeping you awake at night? Need something hidden from the Nephilims next, ah, inspection?"

"Angry ghost is one way to put it," Annis grimaced, "The babe screams and cries for its mother all night long. You'd think it would leave on its own; I gave it back to the mother."

Mark felt something cold sink into the pit of his stomach, "You killed a child?"

Annis turned to glare at him, her milky blue eyes blazing like fire, "You think I'm an idiot? If I so much as touched a _hair_ on a child's head these days, your people would be on me like hounds on a lamb. As if I would do something so stupid, putting myself in danger under laws written up by some jumped up half-angels who haven't been on this Earth long enough to dictate how my Folk live!"

"The Law is hard but it's the Law," Mark said icily, "And it's there for a reason."

"But it doesn't apply to humans," Annis said, showing pebbly iron teeth, "Ask the each uisges up north, who have been near wiped out by humans slaughtering them; the humans get nothing for destroying homelands and killing us, but we so much as breathe near one and the Nephilim punish us for existing." She spat again, "The Law is hard and the Law is _unfair_."

"The Law protects our world from theirs. If it wasn't for the Law, mundanes would have hunted the Fey down by now."

"We managed well enough without having our every move monitored," Annis licked her lips, "Humans used to fear us and that kept us safe."

Mark opened his mouth to retort but Gwyn moved forward and clapped a hand over his mouth, "You will be quiet, _March, _else she might decide it's your skin she wants drying in the sun." He paused, "Not that I blame her; those Marks would make excellent decorations."

Black Annis's look of anger melted away into her quiet, secretive smile again; there was a look in her eye that was smugly satisfied.

"What happened?" Gwyn asked, "If you didn't kill them, who did?"

"Wandered off, died in the wood," Annis peered out of the mouth of her cave, "I took the skin but the parents got the body back, all nicely dressed up in glamour to make it seem whole."

"And you want me to take the soul?" Gwyn mused, tightening his hand over Mark's mouth, "Interesting."

"It's your role," Annis said.

"Only one of many," Gwyn said, standing and hauling Mark to his feet, "I'll take care of your little lost soul, Annis."

He turned and marched Mark out of the cave. Once back out in the sunlight, he let his arm drop to his side and Mark sucked in a breath that didn't smell of damp earth and rain.

"What were you doing in there?" Gwyn asked, keeping his tone mild.

"Defending the Law."

"I see," Gwyn leant in towards him, "You are not a Shadowhunter anymore; they have abandoned you." When Mark looked away, Gwyn gripped his chin and forced him to look back, "You belong to the Hunt now."

"That shouldn't change how I think about Shadowhunters."

"No. I'm not asking it to; if I was, it would be so," Gwyn let go of his chin, "But next time, keep quiet. The Fey here are ancient folk and have their reasons to be frustrated. Next time, I might let them skin you."

He turned and disappeared into the forest. After a few moments of smouldering in his own frustration, Mark followed, twigs and stones digging into his bare feet. Behind him, the skin beat against the wind, a macabre sheet from a macabre faery.


	4. The Declaration and the Hind's Heart

"_In thy face I see the map of honour, truth and loyalty."_

_**Henry VI,**__ William Shakespeare._

* * *

Mark only realised how drunk he really was when Gilfaethwy kissed him. One arm around his shoulders, the other hooked under his left leg, lifting him off of the ground and tipping him back. Gilfaethwy's mouth tasted like sweet honeyed wine and the skin of his bare back was smooth beneath Mark's fingers.

"A little amateur," Gilfaethwy murmured. He set Mark back down on his feet and Mark felt his head spin, a mix of alcohol and vertigo. He nearly fell against the edge of one of the tables, causing it to rattle underneath him. Gilfaethwy laughed and hauled him upward, pushing another goblet of wine into his hands. "We should get Shadowhunters drunk more often."

"I'm not a Shadowhunter anymore," Mark slurred, and he tipped the goblet back, swallowing back wine that was as sweet as summer. A drop trickled down his chin.

"Mmhmm, I believe it," Gilfaethwy said, tracing a finger up Mark throat, "But why are these Marks still here?"

"And why haven't you given your declaration to Gwyn yet?" Steren asked, sidling up alongside him. He was suddenly penned in by the pair of them.

"I didn't know I had to."

"Oh, but of course," Gilfaethwy said gravely, "It's customary, so he _knows_ he has your loyalty."

Mark frowned, "You're lying."

"Faeries can't lie," Steren said, leaning on his shoulder and twisting a lock of her white hair around her finger.

"Half faeries can," Mark corrected her and his words started to run together. He'd learnt that lesson too late, "And 'sides, he's not a faery."

"True," Gilfaethwy conceded, "But that's not a barrier to being one of Gwyn's Hunters."

Mark swayed where he stood and, for a moment, the hall spun around him. He pulled away from Gilfaethwy and sat down on the edge of the table, cradling his head in his hands. He felt like his head was empty. The sound of the revel pressed against his ears.

"What's a declaration for?"

"To prove you're loyal through and through," Steren said, waving a hand, "You say you're loyal forever, he says do something to prove it, you do it, end of story. It's easy enough."

Mark looked up to where Gwyn was lounging, deep in conversation with a dark-haired man who looked a lot like Gilfaethwy. His teeth found his bottom lip. He'd thought that accepting the food that Gwyn offered was enough to rope him into the Wild Hunt but apparently not. He looked back down at his feet.

"I don't remember the last time I wore shoes," he said before sliding off the table, ignoring the mix of amusement and concern that flitted across Gilfaethwy's face, "I have to go."

He pushed past them and through the throng of fey and Annwn residents towards Gwyn. Hands grasped at him, holding him still to try and get a look at his Marks, and he twisted away from them. Nails scratched at him and the world hurtled on around him, too fast and utterly too hot. His feet fell from underneath him and he hit the floor with a thud, his teeth clicking together as his jaw smacked against the floor. He pressed his cheek to the cool floor for a moment, willing his head to stop spinning. After a few moments, he pushed himself to his feet and managed to make his way to Gwyn.

"You've been wine tasting, yes?" Gwyn said, standing and grabbing hold of Mark's shoulders to steady his swaying, "Maybe a little less next time."

Mark grabbed at Gwyn's wrists. His face still felt flushed with drink. He plucked Gwyn's hands form his shoulders.

"I'm fine."

"So why do you come and interrupt my conversation with Gwydion?" Gwyn looked over my shoulder, "Who has now vanished, it seems."

"People keep calling me a Shadowhunter."

"But you were a Shadowhunter."

"Not anymore," Mark's knees folded and cracked against the stone floor. Gwyn raised an eyebrow but didn't pull him up.

"Are you about to propose marriage, Mark Blackthorn?" he asked, "Because I have to say, there is someone I know, and I have arrangements to see her on May Day."

Mark's head nodded forward slightly and any embarrassment he might have felt was swallowed under another wave of light-headedness, "I, Mark Blackthorn, declare myself to you and to the Wild Hunt." He swallowed, "I'm prepared to sever all connections to the Nephilim and the Clave."

Gwyn crouched down in front of him and nudged him to lift his head. There was a satisfied gleam in Gwyn's mismatched eyes, "Is that so."

When Mark nodded, Gwyn hauled him to his feet again, "Why don't you _prove_ it?"

Mark lifted his head and looked Gwyn in the eye, gold meeting pale blue, black to sea blue. The surrounding revel fell still and silent.

"I will," Mark said, and his voice came out remarkably clear and steady, "I can do it."

"Have him swallow a hind's heart!"

"In one sitting!" Gilfaethwy crowed, and the other chorused their agreement.

"Just remember that you asked for this," Gwyn murmured before he called out, "Have one of the deer slaughtered and the heart brought here; we'll have the rest tomorrow."

By the time the heart was brought to him, Mark was starting to sober up. He was kneeling on the top of a circular table and the plate was set down in front of him; the lump of muscle glistened with gore and was still warm when Mark prodded it.

"You can still fold," Gilfaethwy said, leaning over the table with a cunning grin, "Though you'd be relegated to the back of the Hunt if you do."

Mark glared at him and picked the heart up with both hands. His stomach churned when he lifted it and he suddenly regretted every drop of wine he'd swallowed. The smell of blood filled his nose and thickened at the back of his throat and his hands were coated in the stuff.

There was a roar of approval when he took the first bite. Mark nearly retched and he could feel bits of flesh stuck between his teeth. His mouth was thick with copper and he could feel blood running down his chin. He didn't dare look down at his hands; instead, he found Gwyn's gaze and held it, even when he lifted the heart to continue.

Halfway through, Mark wanted to be sick. The heart was utterly mangled and his hands were gloved in gore. There were whispers running through the crowd; when he heard Steren murmuring that he'd never manage the whole heart, he squashed down the sick gurgling in his stomach, absolutely determined to finish.

In a twisted way, the whole thing reminded him of one of Julian's ridiculous competitions with Emma, when he'd been roped into timing who could eat a plate of spaghetti the fastest.

'_You've lost your crown, Jules,' _he thought as he choked down the last of the heart, '_I'm officially the king of eating competitions.'_

He forced himself to swallow rather than spit the last of the blood before he stood up. He could only imagine how he looked: arms streaked with blood to the elbows, face smeared with it, throat caked in red and teeth clotted and pink. He looked pointedly at Gwyn.

"Told you I could do it," he said. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Steren slip some silver into Gilfaethwy's hand, her expression dour.

Gwyn stood and made his way through the assembled fey. He beckoned Mark to the edge of the table and lifted him, arms around his waist.

"Very impressive," Gwyn murmured, as Mark wrapped his legs around his narrow waist, "You'll ride at my right hand, tonight and every night onwards."

Mark dipped his head so that Gwyn could hear him over the clamouring of the crowd, "I think I'm going to be sick."

"Then you can be the one to clean my cloak, boy."


	5. Herne the Hunter

**A/N. I have accidentally created a new BrOTP for myself; Gwyn + Herne the Hunter, besties forever.**

* * *

_You have heard of such a spirit, and well you know_

_The superstitious idle-headed eld_

_Receiv'd, and did deliver to our age,_

_This tale of __**Herne the Hunter**__ for a truth._

— _**William Shakespeare**__, The Merry Wives of Windsor_

* * *

Herne the Hunter was as tall as an oak and as thin as a rake. He watched the world from underneath a black hood topped with arching antlers, his eyes points of light as bright as stars. Mark's witchlight only cast a small puddle of light across him; it was as if his cloak absorbed every light cast his way.

"Gwyn, son of Nudd," Herne said, tipping his head with a grin, "Come to visit me from down in the valleys, have you?" His voice rolled in an imitation of Gwyn's accent.

"I have few friends, Herne," Gwyn said, sliding down from Du y Moroedd's back, "I have to treasure the ones that I do manage to hold on to."

Mark held Cernunnos back and away from them, examining the backdrop of the forest. The eyes of an owl glinted from the branches of the twisting oak over Herne's head. Herne stepped out from the shadow of his oak and, for the first time, Mark noticed the noose that hung around his neck.

"So you visit me in the middle of winter?" Herne said, though there was little irritation in his voice, more a playful fondness, "Cheeky bastard, waking me up when I'm meant to be sleeping."

Gwyn tugged on the antlered hood, "When did you ever know a stag to hibernate like you do?" He looked back to where Mark hung back with Cernunnos, "Besides, I didn't have time to come all the way from Wales before. I had a war to get involved in and then I had to break in the new boy."

"Break him in?" Herne looked over at Mark with lamp-like eyes, "What, you've got him sucking your cock already?" He cackled like a magpie.

"Oh, you're vile," Gwyn said. His own sly grin appeared, "The answer's not yet."

The pair of them both laughed and Mark backed Cernunnos away from them, steering him through the trees until their voices faded. His eyes, sharpened by the Hunt as much as by his marks, picked out the shape of a long arm, the bend of a knee, the glint of an eye. Looking at the forest as a whole, it looked only like a huddle of trees; closer inspection revealed the shapes of Herne's Hunt, watching every move he made. The tree closest to him cracked and moved as Cernunnos sniffed to close, the Huntsman raising one bark clad arm to rub behind the stag's ear.

"Not until spring, my friend," the Huntsman said, looking up to meet Mark's eyes with a gaze that glittered like stars. Cernunnos snorted and arched his neck, stamping his front hoof. The lumpy rock at the Huntsman's feet growled and it was only then that Mark realised it was one of the Hunt's hounds.

Herne's managed to gather and turn his entire Hunt into a forest for the winter.

The Huntsman went still again, though his eyes still shine in the dim light of winter. Mark was the one to break eye contact first, looking down at his feet which were tinged blue with cold.

"Well, this is the creepiest place I've ever been," he said, glancing around to where the rest of them stood, all of them watching silently with star-like eyes, "And in my line of work, that says a lot."

A whistle pierced the air, three long notes followed by two short. Mark turned his head and lifted his fingers to his mouth to return the whistle, the sound high and thin. He turned Cernunnos back to where he'd left Gwyn. A thick fog was starting to roll in, coiling around Cernunnos's fetlocks and obscuring the lumpy hounds; the figures that made up the forest became tall, thin shadows.

"Been introducing yourself to my Hunt, have you?" Herne asked, and Mark could almost imagine a cocked eyebrow beneath the cowl.

"Only one," Mark replied, "Accidentally."

"That happens when you go wandering," Gwyn said, head slightly tilted, unlacing his fingers in a gesture that Mark had seen him use when he was feeling judgemental, "You get snatched by strange men. Such as Iolo over there."

"You know him?"

"He was my best Huntsman," Gwyn bemoaned, "Before Herne _stole_ him!"

Herne grinned, "He came willingly. I might end up getting your new boy in a few years."

"I don't think so," Mark said stiffly, "I didn't eat a whole deer's heart just to leave for someone else."

"And you say I'm bad," Herne said, "None of my Hunters had to eat a heart for their declaration."

"You made one of them weave you a cloak of starlight."

"Which she did beautifully," Herne sighed, "So, Blackthorn, how is Gwyn treating you in Annwn? And his Hunt, of course."

"Fine," Mark scratched the back of his neck, whilst Cernunnos shifted, "I'm used to it. They don't leave me alone much."

"Yes, Gwyn's Hunt is clingy," Herne said.

"It's because he's so…green," Gwyn shrugged, "Like a pony."

"That doesn't mean I want people following me everywhere."

"_March, _that's what we do," Gwyn said, leaning on Cernunnos, "We eat together, we revel together, we hunt together, we sleep together." He paused, "Though you've dodged that part."

Gwyn and Herne both laughed again. Mark huffed, resisting the urge to back Cernunnos away so Gwyn would lose his balance, and marvelled at how easily amused the two of them were. For a pair who had lived for centuries, they laughed easily.

"Anyway," Gwyn said, wiping the grin form his face until it was just a smirk, "Herne, about why I came."

"Wait, we came here for a reason?"

"Yes, of course _March_, keep up," Gwyn said, either not picking up on the sarcasm or ignoring it, "I need a favour."

"Ah?" Herne picked at his teeth, "What do you need?"

"I need Iolo, actually," Gwyn said. He tapped Mark's ankle, "He still doesn't have his hounds. I thought I'd ask some of my oldest friends for help. You'll ask him for me, when he wakes up, won't you?"

Herne reached across Cernunnos, across the front of Mark's saddle, to grip Gwyn's shoulder. Mark suddenly felt like he was caught in the middle of something, like the third wheel.

"For you, my friend," Herne said, "Anything."


	6. Cwn Annwn

**A/N. I'm back from my holiday! Not that any of you guys knew I was _on _holiday but I'm back. And this thing turned out so differently to how I planned. Isn't that just the way?**

* * *

"When's your name day,_March_?"

Mark looked up, "You mean my birthday? You already missed it; what does it matter to you?"

Gwyn heaved a sigh, as if he was irritated that Mark had the gall to be born on a date before he'd bothered to ask, "I can't keep giving you things without occasion; people will start to talk. They'll think you're my favourite." He pressed one palm to his forehead, his face a mask of melodrama, "They'll start to talk. They'll think you're my _cariad."_

"I'm your what now?"

"And I thought we were making so much progress with your language," Gwyn said, "It doesn't matter. Just come with me."

It was with some reluctance that Mark followed; the last time, he'd ended up falling through the ice of Scottish lake and had had to be fished out of the hands of a colony of merrows. Gwyn had found it hilarious; Mark still couldn't feel his toes properly.

"Wipe that look off of your face,_ March_," Gwyn said, dropping back and slinging an arm around Mark's shoulders, "I won't let you fall into another lake. I've gotten quite fond of you, really."

"I thought you liked me anyway."

"I liked bits of you."

"Which bits?"

"Well, this bit," Gwyn reached up to pinch Mark's cheek, "You have a very nice face." When that elicited a grin, he continued, tweaking Mark's curls, "And I like this bit. And you have excellent shoulders."

"Flatterer," Mark said, "You sound like you want favours."

"If I wanted favours, I'd get them from someone else," Gwyn's fingers trailed down Mark's face, tracing along his cheekbone and jaw line, "You know I wouldn't make you do anything you don't want."

"You brought me here."

"You told me you wanted to come with me," Gwyn frowned, "Or have you decided that Meliorn's whip is more to your taste?"

Mark shuddered and quickly changed topic, "What does any of this have to do with what you're showing me?"

The heaviness in Gwyn's eyes lifted, "Nothing at all. Excited?"

"It's hard to get excited; the last time someone showed me something here, I got spat on."

"This won't spit on you. Drool a little, maybe."

"Have you got me a dog?"

"Oh, you weren't supposed to guess so soon," Gwyn lamented, "But yes, you could call it a dog. A Huntsman needs his hounds."

Gwyn steered Mark out towards the fields of Annwn, down through lawns of flowers. Overhead, the sky was starting to darken, the blue of summer turning slowly to the dusky purple of twilight. Towards the horizon, the white points of stars were starting to appear.

"If this is the land of the dead," Mark said, "Then why does time pass? And why in such a weird way?"

"It changes as I want it to," Gwyn explains, snatching up flowers, "If I want it to be dawn, then it's dawn. If I want it to be night, then the sun sets. Everything here is how I want it to be."

"Even what's over that wall that you've told me again and again never to go near?"

"Annwn is not my only kingdom, _March," _Gwyn said, absently weaving the flowers into a wreath, "But of course, feel free to go over the wall; you're safest here but I've noticed that your kind don't always do what is safe."

He dropped the ring of flowers onto Mark's head and beckoned him forward towards a cage of thorns.

"Iolo picked her out for you," he said, picking the thorned branches apart, "One of our best. Only fitting for my newest right hand."

Mark stepped forward to look. The hound was a huge muscled creature, with a shaggy coat the colour of snow and ears tipped in red. A red tongue lolled from the side of its mouth and it was remarkably calm, despite the fire that blazed behind its eyes. It clambered out of the thorns and sniffed at Mark, pressing its muzzle against his stomach. His hands tangled in the thick fur on the animal's ruff.

"I was expecting it to, I dunno, jump all over me or something," He said, even as the hound jostled him back. The crown of flowers slipped down over one eye, "Are they supposed to be this quiet?"

"She's very tired," Gwyn said, "That and there's nothing to be excited over. Have you never met a dog, _March?" _

"I don't usually see hell hounds as being calm," Mark said. The hound dragged its tongue up over his forearm, "I expected more barking and snarling."

"I beg your pardon, _March_, but she isn't from your Christian Hell," Gwyn said, and he sounded almost offended, "Her name is Afanen and she was born and bred right here, in Annwn. You apologise to her at once."

"She isn't offended," Mark paused, "Afanen?"

"Afanen."

The hound, Afanen, managed to knock his balance, butting against his hip, the tail starting to whirl when Mark scratched behind her ears.

"Now you're finally a proper Hunter," he said, "I say this calls for a proper Wild Hunt celebration."

"You take any excuse to get drunk."

"This one is a good one. And the drinking shall wait until later, after we ride and you stretch her legs."

Mark moved his hand to scratch at the soft spot under Afanen's jaw. "Th-" he paused and instead fished for the word in Welsh, "_Diolch, _Gwyn."

"_A chroeso_," Gwyn said softly, reaching out to adjust the flower crown.


	7. Nightmares

**A/N. I'm still not sure what I'm doing. Alas, this is the life I have chosen for myself.**

* * *

_I would enter your sleep if I could, and guard you there, and slay the thing that hounds you, as I would if it had the courage to face me in fair daylight. But I cannot come in unless you dream of me._

_ —__**Peter S. Beagle, The Last Unicorn**_

* * *

Mark had no idea how long he'd been with Gwyn when the nightmares started. They only happened in Annwn, so he'd taken to falling asleep slumped in Cernunnos's saddle when the Hunt turned homewards at dawn; despite the stiff neck it gave him, it was infinitely better than the horrors that had started to spring up in his dreams at night.

He'd taken to wandering the orchards and fields of Annwn, pacing in the open roofed halls of Gwyn's home. The stars peeked through the intertwined branches of the vines that arched overhead and the moon, forever trapped as a half moon, was hidden behind gliding clouds. Afanen padded in his footsteps.

Annwn was quiet in a way that Los Angeles never had been but, more than that, it was lonely.

He dropped down onto the grass on top of a hill, underneath a hanging oak tree. Afanen wriggled under his arm and rested her head on his lap. She looked up at him with drooping eyes and her tongue lolled out of the corner of her mouth; for a moment, she looked like the pet dog that Mark had always wanted to own when he was growing up.

"I think there are two separate versions of you," he told her, "One is that savage thing that I was running with today."

"And the other is the docile creature in your lap," Mark flinched when he heard Gwyn's voice behind him. He focussed on scratching the soft spot between Afanen's ears while Gwyn sat on his opposite side.

"How do you keep finding me?" Mark asked, "Wherever I go, you seem to be able to catch up."

"You're not subtle anymore, _March_," Gwyn replied, "You used to be; when you first came, you were very good at sneaking around. Now? You've gotten too comfortable."

"You mean I'm not trying to find a way to get back home now."

"Exactly," Gwyn gave Mark a long look and tapped his lower lip, mocking consideration, "Now, the question is, why is Mark Blackthorn wandering my little kingdom at night?"

"It's nicer at night," Mark said off-handedly, "I get it all to myself."

"That's not all, _March_," Gwyn leant in closer, "You think I haven't noticed that you've lost sleep? The truth of it is written all over your face, painted beneath your eyes. What ails you?"

"Nothing. I just can't sleep." When Gwyn carried on studying him, he sighed, "I have dreams. Most people do. You might not but you're weird."

"I used up most of my dreams, though I still have them. I've just had the same ones many times."

"You must have very boring nights," Mark said, "Like watching the same movie over and over again?"

"It's not so bad," Gwyn said thoughtfully, "More like revisiting a beloved story. Well, apart from the nightmares, of course. Is it nightmares that bring you out here, _March_?"

Mark tore up handful of grass and didn't look at Gwyn. Afanen let out a low whine in her throat and her eyes flicked between the two of them. Eventually, Mark sighed, letting a small breeze snatch away the blades of grass from between his fingers; some of them caught in Afanen's white fur, small needles of black against her fur.

"About my family," he admitted, "My brothers and sisters, being tortured, being killed. Is that, I dunno, _normal _for here or is something just fucking with me?"

"Annwn is a place for peace," Gwyn said, "It's meant to be a place of rest and revelry for the dearly departed of the mortal world. Arawn was probably much better suited to it but he's retired." He rubbed at his chin, "Whatever's plaguing you, _March_, it isn't Annwn."

"Maybe I'll start sleeping during the day," Mark said, trying to shift his thoughts away from his nightmares. The image of Drusilla stuck through with thorns lingered far too long. His hands balled up around Afanen's fur, "The sun has a way of making people feel safer."

"Perhaps," Gwyn said, "But maybe it isn't a sun that you need. The sun might light up your days but it isn't your days that are the problem. Perhaps what you really need is the moon, to brighten your darkest hours."

"Poetic."

"I thought so," Gwyn chuckled but he quickly sobered, "Of course, if you're going to carry on being any sort of decent Huntsman, you can't be sleeping in the saddle. I can find a way to dispel these nightmares if you want, but know I can't do anything unless you start to truly and fully trust me and let me in."

"Can you blame me for not doing that?" Mark said, leaning one elbow on his knee, "After how I _met _you?"

"For not trusting me? No; not many do," Gwyn stood and brushed grass form his cloak, "But I need you to at least try."


	8. In Dreams

_Dreaming or awake, we perceive only events that have meaning to us_

—_**Jane Roberts**_

* * *

He's nine years old again and is standing on a twisting country lane. The ground is cracked and dry with summer and there's the hum of insects in the air. On one side, there's a field of sheep and, on the other, the road is lined with tangled blackberry bushes.

"England."

Mark turns to see Gwyn standing behind him on the road. He frowns. He doesn't know Gwyn but he does. He's so tall and the antlered helmet doesn't help.

"You were happy here."

And Gwyn's right, though Mark doesn't know how he knows. This was where his dad had used to bring them blackberry picking when they visited England. This was where Tiberius had learnt to walk. This was where Julian had been chased along the fence by an angry ram.

"Yeah."

The air shimmers and the image of Gwyn ripples, like Mark's looking at him through water. Mark turns his back and walks along the lane. It's the first time he's been here alone. He can hear footsteps behind him and he can tell Gwyn's following him. Up ahead, through the wavering air, he can see the figure of a tall, thin woman with a cascade of pale blonde hair that falls down to her ankles. Mark knows her.

"Mom!"

He runs. He stumbles and falls, only just managing to catch himself. His mother doesn't respond to him. She doesn't even turn her head.

"Mommy!"

She stops then and turns, crouching and opening her arms. Her hair hides her face but Mark doesn't care. He falls into her arms, soft arms that wrap around him and hold him close, hands brushing through his hair and a voice that's Helen's but not Helen's cooing in his ear.

"_March." _

Gwyn is standing behind him but Mark just buries his face in his mother's shoulder. His mother, his own mother who'd died before he'd even been swaddled. He clings to her and closes his eyes while she smoothes down his hair.

"_March, _this is not your mother."

There's so much urgency in Gwyn's voice of leaves. Mark looks up to see that his mother's face is Helen's, eighteen years old and scowling at Gwyn. Gwyn's face is steely and Mark looks between them, the phantom of his mother and the faery he knows but doesn't know. Before he can move, the road opens up beneath him, pulling him down, sucking him away, and he's

_falling_

He lands running on the fine sand of the beach near the Los Angeles Institute. He's twelve and he's here because his dad and his stepmother are angry at him.

"What did you do, _March?" _

Mark stops with a spray of sand. Gwyn is behind him but the coastal wind doesn't so much as stir his cloak. The sky is overcast with pearly grey clouds that are spitting rain but it doesn't feel like proper rain. It feels like cold sand. Mark sits and huddles in on himself.

"I hit someone."

"You are a Shadowhunter. You are meant to hit people."

Mark shakes his head. It's all right for him to tell Gwyn this. Gwyn doesn't know his dad so he can't tell him anything.

"I hit someone who was visiting. And now Dad's mad at me."

Mark draws pictures in the rain damp sand. Gwyn sits alongside him, tucking his cloak beneath him. The rain doesn't touch it.

"Why did you hit them?"

"Because they called me knife ears."

It's easier to talk to Gwyn about this. Gwyn won't tut and sigh and never say anything like his stepmother does. He won't give him the stern look or ground him or call him Mark Antony, like his father does. He knows by now that they care more about what others think than about how they talk to him.

"That's not true, _March. _Your parents loved you very much. You know that."

"My mom died; she's not my mom."

"That doesn't mean she didn't love you."

The tide is starting to roll in. Mark should turn to go home, to face his dad's lectures and his own grounding. Helen will look at him like he's the wrong one as well, as if she's never been called names by other Shadowhunter kids before, even though he knows she has.

But he doesn't. He stays sat on the sand, with waves licking his toes, rain spitting on his face and Gwyn at his side.

"Why are you here?"

Gwyn looks at him.

"Because you let me in."

"But why _here?"_

"Only you could answer that. Your dream."

The waves roll in up the beach and wash over Mark's head. His lungs fill with salt water but breathing seems to come easier.

When the water recedes, he's sat on the floor of the nursery in the Institute with Drusilla. He's fourteen. She's lying on her stomach in front of him and she'd insisted on reading to him. He can't count the amount of times she's told him about Cinderella.

Helen, he knows, is somewhere downstairs with their stepmother and the twins. His stepmother is expecting another baby any day now and Julian's gotten sick.

"Julian?"

Mark flinches when he hears Gwyn. Faeries can't come here.

"My little brother. He got sick."

As if on cue, one of Julian's sobs of pain filters through the wall, followed by the low murmur of their father's voice. Drusilla scowls at her book.

"And the other one?"

"Ty? He's downstairs; he's helping his mom."

"Who is he, Mark?"

Drusilla paws at his knee and points at Gwyn. Gwyn raises an eyebrow but Drusilla simply abandons her book completely and clambers into Mark's lap, her arms around his neck, watching Gwyn with wide eyes.

"He's…It's not easy to say, Dru. He's like my boss. Maybe. I think."

Her lip wobbles and her eyes fill with tears.

"Are you leaving, Mark?"

She buries her face in his shoulder and her fists ball in the fabric of his shirt. Behind him, Gwyn steps forward like a ghost, leaning down over Mark's shoulder.

"You can't go. We love you here. That means you have to stay."

A hand falls to squeeze his shoulder.

"_March._"

Mark knows that tone. It means danger. There can't be anything dangerous about here, though. Here is home. Here is safe. Here is where his family is.

"I'm not leaving, Dru. Not for a while.

Gwyn sighs, long and heavy and with a strong undercurrent of worry. Drusilla looks up and beams at him. It's something Gwyn can never offer him, to see his littlest sister happy. He turns his head from Gwyn and presses his cheek to Drusilla's dark curls, trying to ignore his dad shouting to his stepmother that he's taking Julian to the mundane hospital and the sound of Tiberius shouting downstairs. Drusilla makes a soft, content sound against his collarbone.

"You should go see Tibs. That would _show_ you we need you more."

Mark frowns, because that doesn't sound like Drusilla. He moves to push her away slightly and her nails dig into her chest.

"Don't go! Stay with me!"

Her voice comes out a shriek. Mark hears Gwyn swear behind him and then there's a yank on his arm. Drusilla dissolves into sand in his arms and the nursery starts to fall away, the floor and walls flaking into paper around him.

"Why did you take me from them?!"

Mark shoves at Gwyn's chest, though Gwyn barely takes a step back before he grasps hold of Mark's hands. Mark throws himself down against the black nothing beneath him to twist out of Gwyn's hold.

"They were put there to hurt you, _March."_

"What do you know about what hurts me?"

"You have been with me a long time. No doubt, you know of what hurts me as well."

Gwyn ripples like a flag snatched by a strong wind and his voice sounds like he's speaking through water. He flickers in and out of view as the Institute starts to materialise in the void. This time, however, it's the foyer and it's a mess. He could smell the sea over the stink of blood because of the shattered window and statues are cracked and powdered on the ground. There's a boot in his back and his father's on his knees in front of someone with blond hair so pale it's almost white.

"Dad?"

The figure turns and looks at Mark with eyes like oil spills. He smiles and it's a smile like Gwyn's, with a dark feral edge to it, but it's so much worse because there's no hint of kindness or humour in that smile. He holds a perversion of the Mortal Cup between his fingers and, behind him, Mark's father is retching with blood on his lips.

Sebastian Verlac crooks a finger and Mark can hear Katerina and Sebastian speaks but his words came out as the buzzing of a thousand bees. He pushes the cup between Katerina's teeth as well and Mark has to look away, even as a boot grinds his spine. His father has fallen; his father, who stood fast against anything. His father, who was stronger than granite.

"Oh, _March." _

Mark looks again and now his father's standing. His head crowds against the ceiling and Sebastian towers like a titan. His father's hands pull him up by the back of his shirt and he feels smaller than a mouse. The ceiling of the Institute seems so far away but his father can still reach it. His head is yanked up to look Sebastian in the eye. His father's hand tangles in his hair and it's his father who forces him to his knees in front of Sebastian, the Cup inches from his mouth.

It's all his father, who's always protected him.

"It's not him, _March; _he'd never want to hurt you."

"You don't know that!"

Sebastian freezes and then he speaks. His words buzz and locusts fall from his mouth.

"I do, _March. _I know all the secrets of the dead."

Mark's yanked up and back and his wrists are lashed together. No knife thuds home in Sebastian's chest, none of _his _blood is shed. Deep in his gut, Mark knows that everyone else in the Institute is dead. Julian, Emma, the twins; everyone down to little Tavvy. Only Helen is left.

"This isn't how this happened. Your family lives. You have to wake up from this. I cannot help like this; there are only horrors here."

Gwyn's hands find him again and there's a softness to them that's never been there before. The touch of them starts to drown out the bruising grip of his father. The Institute flickers with flame and burns around him while Gwyn's voice echoes around, vibrating in his skull.

"Come on.

You need to

wake

_up."_

* * *

Mark woke curled up underneath his cloak. His head was pillowed on Cernunnos's side, the warmth of the stag steady and reassuring. Afanen lay at his side, her ears pricked and alert. He felt like he'd been plunged in cold water. He reached up to push his fingers through Cernunnos's fur and Cernunnos turned his head to nuzzle at Mark's hair.

Gwyn sat a little way away. His helmet was on the grass beside him and he was watching Mark with an expression Mark couldn't identify.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" Mark asked and he hated how choked he sounded.

Gwyn's eyes never wavered.

"Yes."

* * *

**A/N. You know, I was meant to post a chapter where he meets the Morrigan. This happened instead. I have no control any more. **


	9. Arawn

**A/N. So...this was meant to be done for May Day and now it's nearly the summer solstice. I'm very sorry.**

* * *

_Hir yw'r dydd a hir yw'r nos, a hir yw aros Arawn_

_(Long is the day and long is the night, and long is the waiting of Arawn.)_

Mark woke up next to the remains of a bonfire with a pounding head and a scraped back. He stared at the powdery white branches with a frown, the stink of smoke stinging his nose. A cold nose pressed against the back of his neck and Mark rolled over to get a face full of Afanen's fur.

"How is it you never know how much you've been drinking?" he muttered, pushing himself to stand. He swayed on his feet, his head spinning. The smell of wood smoke seemed to cling to him. "Out the way, Afanen, I might be sick on you."

He wandered across the orchards of Annwn, aiming for Gwyn's palace where he could hide himself away from the Hunt for a while to nurse his sore head. Afanen licked his hand the entire way there, her tongue smooth and warm.

"_March!" _As soon as he stepped inside, Mark was swept up into Gwyn's arms and swung round. He clutched at Gwyn's armour, "Did they all leave you by the fire?"

"Put me down, you dick," he said, fingers curling against the straps of Gwyn's armour, "Where are you going?"

"I have somewhere very important to be, and something very important to do," Gwyn said and he set Mark back down onto his feet again, "I'll tell you everything when I return. For now, I need you to be my eyes and ears here and keep watch over someone." Catching the look on Mark's face, he quickly added, "You wanted to be my right hand, this is part of that."

"So what is it?" Mark asked. He didn't bother trying to twist away from the arm holding him up, "I don't have to play Grim Reaper while you go on your quests, do I? I don't have the image for it."

"I have no idea what you mean."

"You don't have a good idea of what humans think when they think of the Wild Hunt, do you?"

"Of course I do: me," Gwyn said. He steered Mark off to the left, towards the throne room. The doors were tall and carved with twisting designs of the Hunt, "But it's not that. I need you to be the right hand of someone else today."

He pushed the door and it opened with a whisper of wind. He pulled Mark up straight before he strode in, retrieving a blackthorn staff from where it leant against the wall, "Arawn, old friend, I have someone to meet you."

The throne, usually empty since Gwyn much preferred to spend his days roaming the fields of Annwn or the forests and mountains of Wales, was occupied by a man who sat with his long legs hanging over one of the arms. He had a head of dark curls and, when he turned, a third eye stared at them from the middle of his forehead. Mark had to bite on the inside of his lip to keep himself from fidgeting as all three eyes looked him up and down from underneath a lopsided deer skull.

"He is not what I expected," Arawn said, and his voice quiet and monotonous, level with the calm that came after hundreds of years of living, "A bit on the thin side. A little rangy. He'd get stuck between your teeth."

"If he was going to eat me, he would have done it by now," Mark said, and Arawn grinned, showing thin teeth.

"Not without your consent he won't," Arawn said. He gestured with a small knife, "He treats his Hunters well, does Gwyn. I take it you are to be my constant companion this May Day?"

"Don't turn your mouth down so, Arawn," Gwyn said. He squeezed Mark's upper arm, "He's good. A little tender, perhaps, but you've been doing this long enough that you don't need him to tell you everything."

Arawn twisted his knife over in his hands, "Have fun with your little tourney."

Gwyn turned his staff round in his hand but said nothing. He left Mark without a word, his cloak whispering along the floor. Mark watched him go and felt an odd sinking feeling in his stomach. Arawn's eyes crept over him again and he wished that Afanen had followed him inside.

"You are a Nephilim," Arawn said finally.

"That is usually one of the first things people notice," Mark said. He picked at the shadow of a rune on his arm, "It's the runes, isn't it?"

"They are suddenly one clue." Arawn swung his legs down and stood up. He stepped down to Mark's level, "The question, why does Gwyn have a Nephilim riding at his side? Have you defected?"

"In a sense. It's complicated." Mark looked towards the door, after Gwyn, "Where's he going?"

"He has arrangements for every May Day," Arawn replied, "I watch his court whilst he's gone, though it seems there is little to do now." He heaved a sigh, "I remember when I forged alliances across the border of life and death. Now, it is all gone and we remain pushed here."

"Times change."

"That they do." Arawn turned away, "Some faster than others."

Unsure of what that meant, Mark ploughed on to something else, "What do you do when you're not here?"

"I watch over the place beyond death, beyond Annwn. Gwyn cannot reach it, not yet. I come when he needs me, and I wait a long time for him to do so." Arawn stepped behind the throne and retrieved two swords. One, he slid along the floor to Mark, "Enough about Gwyn. First we spar and you show me what you're made of. And then we drink, to your good health of course." He adjusted his hold on his sword, "You know swords, do you not?"

"Some better than most," Mark replied, and Arawn's grin returned as he picked up the sword. The balance was perfect in his hand, "I prefer the bow."

"All Hunters do," Arawn said, "The bow, or knives, but a sword has its own refinement. Ready yourself, Mark son of Blackthorn. I have a year of preparation to work out with you."

* * *

This time when he woke, he was curled up on the throne, head pillowed on the arm. He'd been woken by the sounds of Gwyn and Arawn talking on the other side of the room. He didn't stir, with the hope that his eavesdropping would go unnoticed.

"Why is he on my throne?" Gwyn asked, "Did you put him there?"

"Yes," Arawn sounded annoyed, "To keep you from stepping on him. Or bleeding on him, for that matter."

"He's used to a little blood. He'd be fine."

There was quiet and then a hiss of pain before Arawn spoke again, "This is too far for my comfort, Gwyn. Look how deep this is."

"I don't think Gwythyr meant to cut so deep," Gwyn said with a weak laugh, "He's become softer over time."

"And you have become sloppy!" Arawn snapped, "To have so much blood come from a wound you believe to be half-hearted says more about you than him."

"Creiddylad said the same thing."

"And your father?"

"Silent as always." Gwyn sighed, and it was a sound of relief, "You are too good to me, Arawn."

"I'm starting to think so." Arawn paused, "Go to your second, tell him you're back. You know where I am, should you need me."

Gwyn muttered his thanks and Mark ducked his head into his arms when Gwyn's footsteps approached. His neck was stiff, and protested the movement.

"That can't be comfortable."

"It's not," Mark said and he peered up at Gwyn, "What happened to you?"

Gwyn's hand drifted over his bandaged middle, "It's nothing I can't survive." His face was creased with pain, "Though it does hurt."

"I bet it does." Mark sat up and pressed one hand to the lines of red that were showing through the linen bandages, "I wish I had my stele."

Gwyn made an amused sound in the back of his throat, "Your angelic runes would burn me from the inside out."

"I know," Mark said, and his fingers curled, "It's a crutch, more than anything." Worry thudded in his stomach, "How are you going to ride tomorrow?"

"I won't. You lead in my stead." Gwyn swept his fingers through Mark's hair, "Perhaps one day, mortals will think of your face when they hear of the Wild Hunt."

"You say that like you're going to leave it one day."

"All things must end, _March," _Gwyn said, "However, I don't plan on ending my tenure with the Hunt for a long time." His hand moved to cup Mark's chin, his thumb stroking the curve of Mark's jaw, "After so many years, it can be tiring but I can bear it because now I have you."

"Because you have me?" Mark asked. He allowed Gwyn to lift his head, even when he felt blood blooming warm and wet beneath his hand. Gwyn's eyes were lined with pain, but there was a soft affection there as well. He dipped his head to press his forehead to Mark's, and Mark moved to clasp his hands behind Gwyn's neck, smearing blood across the bare skin. His eyes closed and Gwyn leant against him, swaying slightly but content.

"Yes," he breathed, stroking Mark's cheek, "Because I have you."


	10. Steren

_It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves._

—_**William Shakespeare.**_

* * *

"And what do your people call the Hunter?"

"Orion."

"And what is his story?"

Mark was sprawled on his back on a grassy hillside, looking up at the night sky. Steren lay next to him, her white hair fanned out over the grass, without her armour and looking all the smaller for it. Her left eye was as grey as a summer storm, while the right was entirely black and reflected galaxies.

"He has a lot of stories," Mark said, rolling his shoulders against the cool grass, "He's a constellation because he hunted the goddess Artemis and her mother and threatened to kill every living thing on Earth. The Earth didn't like that, so she spawned a scorpion to kill him. Zeus put him amongst the stars, along with the scorpion." He paused, "My father's favourite was different though."

Steren turned her head to him, "Tell."

"He always liked the one where Apollo, a god of music and light, got really jealous because his sister Artemis loved Orion. So one day, when he saw Orion swimming, he challenged his sister to shoot at his head. And she did. I think it was Artemis who makes him a constellation in that story." Mark laughed, "My dad always told it better. He knew every one of his favourites by heart and knew exactly how to tell them." He looked at Steren, "What are your stories about Orion."

Steren snorted and shrugged, "If there are any, I do not know them. To me, and to the people I used to live with, he is only the Swordsman in the Sky. He is there, watching passive and eternal, like all stars do."

"Steren."

"Blackthorn."

"Why are you the only woman in the Hunt?"

"Because no other women wish to join it." Steren heaved a sigh, and the movement highlighted the shadows on her exposed ribs, "You want to hear my story of how I came to join it?"

"Everyone knows mine."

"This is true."

Steren sat up, shaking out her hair, and pulled her hunting bag close. She rummaged through for a moment before withdrawing a comb carved from bone; she knelt and patted her lap. "Come here."

"You want to do my hair?" Mark said, incredulous. "That's a bit…odd."

"It is something to do with my hands."

He shifted so that he was leaning against her and she raked the comb through his hair. Her own hair surrounded them like a white cloud, a tangling waterfall of snowy curls around her shoulders and her face.

"There is a court in Kernow," Steren started, her hand slow, her voice level as if she was starting someone else's story instead of her own, "Where I was a knight to the queen. She had a courtier, who was as soft and hard and wild as the sea." Her face softened as she fell further back into memory, "Her name was Meraud."

She lifted one hand and there was a gust of sea scented wind. A woman formed in the air, with skin the colour of a dawn and hair like sea spray, laughing at some long ago joke. Steren lowered her hand again, smoothing out Mark's hair, looking down as she combed.

"It's been so long but I remember her so well."

"You loved her," Mark said, looking at the glamour of Meraud.

"More than life itself," Steren sighed, "My queen…it didn't matter to her. I fought, and I fought well. And if having Meraud around made me fight better, because I wanted to prove myself to be great and strong, then it was all the better for her." Her grip on Mark tightened, "But obviously not everything could stay perfect."

Another spectre blossomed alongside the laughing Meraud; this one was masculine, clad in dark armour with vines of ivy in the place of hair. His eyes were the green of oak leaves and pupil less. The two figures circled each other, Meraud laughing and flirtatious, the man more solemn but with a hint of a smile playing on his mouth.

"Branok," Steren said, "Meraud, she wanted us both. Branok, however, wanted to be the only one who had Meraud."

"Did he try to kill you?" Mark asked. Steren's hands stilled again.

"No," she said softly, "He conspired with a human lover of his to have me banished. He stole a blade that rival court coveted and gave it to their queen, and used his human lover to lie and say I stole it. My queen banished me from her court and her lands for my supposed betrayal."

The spectre of Branok melted away and Meraud's joy wilted to sorrow, her shoulders weighted with loss. Steren looked down and away from her again, as if pained by the silently wailing memory in front of her.

"She said to me, before I left, '_medhel an gwyns.'_ I was so angry with her; something so useless as that! She could have said anything. She could have told me we'd meet again, that she'd miss me, that she loved me. But no. Medhel an gwyns." Steren stroked Mark's hair, "I felt so lost after I left the court. I left Kernow and went north. I lost myself in the forests and bays of Wales, crying out for help, for guidance, for _anything _that meant I was not alone."

She paused and looked up at the stars again, "And Gwyn came to me. He offered me a place in his Hunt, somewhere I could belong again and more than I ever had in the Kernow court. I have ridden with him ever since. I believe now that I know what Meraud was trying to say."

"And what was that?"

"Medhel an gwyns means soft is the wind," Steren said, "And although Gwyn is not a soft hearted creature, his mercy to me was softer than any pillow. He could have killed me."

She brushed Mark away and stood. Her skirts whispered against the grass and she stopped, the wind lifting her curls off of her shoulders.

"I was human once," she said, "A very, very long time ago." When she turned, her eyes were bright, "You and I are very similar, you know."

Mark cocked his head, "You think so?"

"I do. Both of us outsiders in our homes, both of us betrayed and abandoned."

"I wasn't an outsider," Mark said, "I had my family."

"Oh, but you were," Steren said, "Never in your family, perhaps. But the Nephilim never saw you as their own."

"His name doesn't mean wind, you know."

"I'm sorry?"

"Gwyn," Mark said, "Not in Welsh."

"Steren means star but that does not mean that I am amongst them," Steren said, gesturing towards the sky, "Perhaps names carry less meaning than we believe. Perhaps they only have the meanings we need them to."

"That makes no sense."

"Very little does."

"So do you only have two reasons as to why we're alike?" Mark said, leaning back in his hands, "That doesn't seem…substantive."

Steren smiled and it made her look years younger, breaking through the centuries of her life. It was a relieved smile.

"There's a third," she said, approaching him again and ran her hand through his hair, "We were both set free by our exile."

* * *

**A/N. [drops OC's backstory on readership.]**

**Um... sorry about that. This was meant to have Gilfaethwy too but he decided no, he's not having anything to do with it. So Steren info instead. **

**On Steren combing Mark's hair, it's actually more than just her needing something to do with her hands. In the Mabinogion, grooming someone (combing, washing hair etc) is a sign of acceptance and/or reconciliation. Arthur does it for Culhwch in the tale of Culhwch and Olwen, showing that he accepts his cousin and is willing to help him. A reconciliation example is in the Fourth Branch, when Math has Gwydion and Gilfaethwy and their hair combed out after their three year punishment. So Steren combing out Mark's hair and telling him her life story is her showing him that a) she accepts him and b) she trusts him. Fun facts for you there :)**


	11. On the Sand

_"I want to love, but my hair smells of war and running and running."_

—_**Warsan Shire**_

Mark kept track of the days as best he could by marking them on a tree with his hunting knife. He knew that the Hunt rode at midnight each night so he marked the tree after his return. He counted up his tallies each night, working out how long he'd been with the Hunt.

It's because of his tallies that he knew it was his eighteenth birthday when he kissed Gwyn ap Nudd.

He pulled Gwyn close with one arm around the faery's waist, a bottle of wine held in his free hand. Gwyn held him and kissed him back, experienced and surprisingly gentle, gripping at the small of Mark's back.

"Have you been drinking, _March?_" Gwyn said, pulling away abruptly, "I know how you like kisses when you're drunk."

Mark held up the wine bottle, showing the cork to be untouched, "Not a drop. Yet."

Gwyn ran his tongue over his bottom lip, "So, why do I receive this great honour?"

"It's my eighteenth. I thought why not kiss my boss."

"A fair thought, I'll give you that. Is that all?"

"No. I just wondered if you wanted to drink with me."

"Steren and Gilfaethwy are not available?"

"Steren and Gilfaethwy are why I make bad decisions."

Gwyn laughed and it was a warm, raw sound. He looped one arm around Mark's shoulders and drew him in close and Mark felt something warm swell up in his chest. He wasn't sure at what point Gwyn had become a source of such warmth in his life; it was lost somewhere in the forever that he had spent in Annwn.

He trailed through Annwn, Gwyn at his side, meadows and rivers shifting and giving way to silvery soft beach sand and the slow rush of the ocean. The sun burned hot overhead.

"And what have you made, _March?"_

"Home." Mark settled on the sand. He looked to see where the scene turned white and blurry at the edges, "I think. I don't really remember as much as I'd like to."

"It doesn't look so terrible," Gwyn said, and he folded down onto the sand. He scrunched his nose in distaste, "Too warm, though."

Mark pressed up to Gwyn's side, pulling the cork out of the bottle with his teeth. The smell that came from the bottle was less sweet than usual, nearly dry with a slight edge of bitterness. He drank from the bottle and the wine stuck to the back of his throat. Gwyn hummed at his side and he was all too aware of the warmth of Gwyn's shoulder pressed to his, of the rhythm of Gwyn's breathing.

"Drink?" he said, holding the bottle out, "I don't think I stole one of your best."

"No, I don't think you did," Gwyn said, taking the bottle, "But that's your error, not mine."

He tipped the bottle up and Mark watched as his throat moved. Gwyn smiled and lowered the bottle and gently tipped Mark's chin with a finger, "You're staring."

Mark shrugged, "You're an interesting view."

"As are you."

Mark took the bottle from him and set it aside on the sand; he grabbed the front of Gwyn's cloak and pulled him in again, pressing his mouth against Gwyn's. He wanted to drown himself in Gwyn ap Nudd, to lose himself and distract himself. Gwyn's hand settled in Mark's hair, pulling between his fingers.

"What's wrong?" Gwyn asked, "You're tense."

"I'm fine," Mark breathed and he pressed his forehead to Gwyn's, "I'm fine. Really. You don't need to worry."

"Who says I am?" Gwyn sighed, "You are not a good liar, Mark Blackthorn."

"Let me have this."

"Have what?"

"You know," Mark pulled away a little and gestured to the space between them, "This."

"And what is this, _March?"_

Mark stopped, running one hand through his hair. He didn't know what to call it. He knew that it was something he wanted, though he wasn't sure why. He wanted Gwyn with his calloused hands and warm skin and surprisingly gentle kisses; he wanted Gwyn's arms around him and Gwyn's teeth against his shoulder and Gwyn's deep, wild scent filling his lungs.

"I don't know what it is," he said eventually, "But I want it."

"For a Nephilim, you want strange things, Mark Blackthorn."

Mark pitched forward and buried his face in Gwyn's neck, "It's strange to want to be with someone?"

"It is strange for someone like you to want to be with someone like me."

"I'm not…maybe I'm more like you than you think."

Gwyn laughed, "I like to think you are not. I am old, _March_, and have done things your insides would turn at."

Mark rested his chin on Gwyn's shoulder. In his time with the Hunt, he'd done things that had used to frighten him when he was little and curled up under his father's arm when he was being told bedtime stories. He'd walked on the back of the wind and drank faery wine and revelled until his feet had felt bruised and raw; smiled with teeth clotted with blood and carried souls in his arms.

"You act like I can't have changed," Mark said, "I have. It's in the way I move and talk and think." He leant back and caressed Gwyn's jaw, "I'm not like the others, the other Nephilim. Let me have this."

Gwyn studied him for a moment before kissing down the line of his throat. His breathing was quick and warm against Mark's skin.

"You want to be loved?" Gwyn asked between kisses, "Or just attention?"

Mark didn't say anything. He allowed Gwyn to push him down onto his back, hot sand against his shoulders and his spine. He clung onto Gwyn as the faery pressed him to the sand. He pulled at the buckles and straps of Gwyn's armour, pulling them loose and pushing the armour away. He could feel the line and curve of Gwyn's spine beneath his hands, the movement of every muscle.

He'd forgotten all about the bottle of wine until one of them knocked it. Dark liquid spilt out, cold and wet, soaking into clothes and white sand. Gwyn laughed as he moved to undo Mark's belt.

"You wasted my wine," he said, drawing the belt away.

Mark grinned, "You said it was crap anyway."

"Oh, insulting my wine now," Gwyn said, plucking at the waistband of Mark's trousers, "You wound me."

"You're not that bothered."

"No," Gwyn said softly. His hands paused, "Your smile's been a rare sight these past days." He settled forward again, kissing beneath Mark's ear. Mark could feel his heartbeat thumping through the thin fabric of his shirt, "You are not changed for the worst, _March. _Do not let anyone tell you otherwise."

Mark pulled Gwyn's shirt up and over his head, tossing it aside on the sand. He ran one hand up over the lines of Gwyn's ribs, over the shadows of scars. Gwyn caught hold of his hand and kissed his wrist, mouth pressed over his pulse point. He regarded Mark with something warm and affectionate in his mismatched eyes.

"_March_," Gwyn said, tracing a line down from Mark's collar bone to his waist.

"Mm?"

Gwyn's smile softened, "Congratulations on your eighteenth year."


	12. Robin Goodfellow

**A/N. This ended differently to my original plan. That happens a lot, huh. I hope you like it anyway :)**

* * *

_I am that merry wanderer of the night.  
I jest to Oberon and make him smile  
When I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile,  
Neighing in likeness of a filly foal:  
And sometime lurk I in a gossip's bowl_

_**William Shakespeare, **__ A Midsummer Night's Dream_

The morning after the beach, Mark had woken curled up on a wide, deep bed, Gwyn's cloak hugged to his chest. He hadn't even been aware that Gwyn had had private rooms, let alone a bed, though it seemed obvious in hindsight; Gwyn was Annwn's king, which would mean somewhere to retreat away from the world. His own cloak was gone so he'd taken Gwyn's instead, shrouding himself in that low wild smell.

He adjusted how the cloak lay across his shoulders and pushed it away from where it caught under his heels. Gwyn, already taller than Mark, wore his cloak cut longer than he was tall which made it ludicrously long on Mark. Behind him, his fire crackled, the wood smoke blotting out the stink of fish guts as he turned the flesh over the flames.

"Ah, far from home, hmm?"

Cernunnos twitched an ear at the voice, strange and warbling. Mark didn't bother looking around; he turned the fish over the fire the smell of it rising in steam off of the slightly blackened edges. Footsteps crunched on the leaves behind him and then there were hands on his shoulders, light as butterflies, pressing at knots in his muscles. Soft breath drifted through his hair.

"Poor hunter," the voice said, "Poor hunter so far from home, so far from Wales. Is he lost?"

"Wales isn't my home," Mark said, prodding at the fish, "I don't even really live there."

"But you look Welsh," the voice said, "You dress Welsh. You _sound _Welsh."

"I…_dress_ Welsh?"

"Yes, Gwyn's clothes. Gwyn's cloak, Gwyn's clasp." One hand moved to cover Mark's eye, "Gwyn's Hunter's mark." The voice laughed and Mark felt a knee at his back, "You have Tylwyth hair. Soft and bright as sunlight."

The body the voice belonged to swung into sight. They were mostly unremarkable; long limbed and graceful but nothing eye catching. A clutch of feathers blew behind their ear and their eyes shone a bright brown.

"And why is Welsh not-Welsh out here?" they asked, "You stray from your Hunt's usual grounds. Watch out for Herla."

"I've been warned," Mark said while the faery folded to sit across from him, "He shoots people."

"Ayes, he does," the faery nodded. They gestured toward the fish, "You'll share, yes? I can share a story or two. Mine delight the high king himself."

"Do you have many stories?"

"Countless ones. Food first though, yes?"

The faery hugged their knees and watched. Mark paid them very little heed. Instead, he dwelt on what they'd said; he sounded Welsh. That could mean he'd lost his accent to Gwyn's lilt or he'd been speaking Welsh to Cernunnos and hadn't even realised he'd been doing it. He didn't object when the faery took the larger portion, nor when Cernunnos woke to use his shoulder as a scratching post. He looked the faery over again to see that they had threads of green shot through their dark hair, gleaming emerald in the weak sunlight. The faery caught him looking and beamed, a scale that Mark had missed shining on their teeth.

"Do you like?" they asked, "You know, I would treat ye better than Gwyn, should you choose to spread for me."

Mark made a disgusted noise, "Don't talk about me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm his whore."

"Nay, were you his whore, he'd pay you in something." The faery pressed one of the fish's vertebrae between their finger and their thumb, "Tis not the case. He has you, body and soul; everything you are is his. He wants you, your legs will part without you even telling them to." The tiny bone shattered, "He'd take you and you wouldn't even know if you'd have said yes."

"Gwyn wouldn't," Mark said, his neck feeling hot with anger and a touch of embarrassment, "He wouldn't."

"Not saying he would." The faery snapped one of the tiny ribs, "But he is a king. Kings can and there are kings who do. Such a pretty face as yours, and good spirit, ye deserved a warning." They saw the red around Mark's neck and their face turned apologetic, "I don't mean to be causing offence."

"Don't talk about Gwyn like that." Mark stroked Cernunnos's ear, "He's not like that."

"Gwyn is an ageless creature; there is no saying what he is or isn't like." The faery tipped their head, "But of course, he may not be now and that is what matters." They returned to their fish, "Though I suppose it's of no comfort if you love him."

Mark frowned, "I don't think I'd call it that."

"I'm not you, so I will," the faery said, discarding the remaining fish bones into the river, "You have a sour look. If it makes you feel better, he probably doesn't love you either; you won't be hurting him."

Cernunnos stood while Mark scraped what was left of the fish into the underbrush. The faery's eyebrows raised.

"Are you leaving?" they asked, "My deepest apologies for offending." They stood and stretched and Mark saw a line of bare skin beneath their navel, a strip of pale white coloured by the barest hint of green, "I can escort you back." The smile returned, "I still owe you that story."

"You can come with me, if you like," Mark said, stamping out the fire whilst Cernunnos stood, "Makes no difference to me." He gripped at Cernunnos and dragged himself up on to the stag's back, "Though Gwyn might not like it much, after what you said."

"I'm sure Gwyn ap Nudd has had far worse lobbed at him."

The faery walked in Cernunnos's footsteps, one hand twisted into the hem of the cloak so Mark wouldn't leave them behind. They launched into tale after tale, recounting stories of faery monarchs, both famous and forgotten. The ghosts of myths and legends rolled off of their tongue and their voice was light as water, despite how long and far they walked.

"Do you have stories?" the faery asked at the end of a tale about an extended boar hunt, "Being a hunter, I can imagine you would have many experiences that make great tales."

"None that haven't been told before," Mark said, "You'd find them boring."

"Perhaps." The faery pulled on the cloak, "What is it like to bed a king?"

"You've never done it?" Mark asked, eyebrow raised, "You seem like the type."

"My king is a married man," the faery said, "We kiss sometimes but it never goes far. Is he enjoyable?"

"I thought so," Mark said and he could feel his neck going red again, "You should try it."

He could see a white shape bounding through the grass towards him, red ears flapping and tail whirling. Afanen plunged towards him, bowling the faery off of their feet in her excitement. She pawed at Mark's leg when he halted Cernunnos to scratch her head. Her tongue lolled and her tail was a blur.

"Hello to you too," Mark said, "You should apologise, Afanen. They didn't...actually, no, you did deserve that. Prying into my sex life."

"Tis fair game, when you lie with the likes of Gwyn ap Nudd," the faery said, "All of Faerie would love such gossip." They sat up, "He is well known, you see."

"I am well known," Gwyn said from the trees. Mark looked up to see Gwyn sat on a thick oak branch. Gwyn pointed an arrow at him, "But I'd rather my time behind closed doors remained private. Though I suppose what happened on the beach…"

"Beach? Nobody mentioned a beach." the faery scrambled up, "You tell me, Gwyn, I'll carry it on. I'll weave a tale around, no doubt of your long romantic courtship, to regale my king with."

"Oh, Robin, you are wicked," Gwyn said. He swung down from the branch, landing alongside Cernunnos. He patted Mark's knee, "Mark probably wouldn't like it much."

"Well, I'd rather not be used just for entertainment," Mark said. He tugged at Gwyn's hood, "You took my cloak."

"I took more than just your cloak," Gwyn said and the faery, Robin, cackled while Mark scowled.

"Don't," he said and he pulled Cernunnos away, to Gwyn's confused expression.

Robin's smile was still easy, "I shall leave you both to your tiff." They pinched at Mark's side, "I hope to hear of you soon. Have an adventure I can tell stories and sing of in centuries to come."

Robin melted back into the trees, vanishing from Annwn. Gwyn watched them go, his lips pressed thin, before he looked back at Mark.

"Something has soured your mood," he said, "What did Robin say to you?"

"Nothing for you to worry about," Mark said shortly. He kicked his foot free to stroke the top of Afanen's head with the ball of his foot.

"Well, I will say, take very little notice of Robin," Gwyn said, "They are much changed; gossip never used to be their cause in life. It used to be stories, song, and dance." He caught hold of Mark's ankle, tracing a tender line up along the sole of Mark's foot, "If it is something I've done, I apologise. I can make it up to you."

"You're that concerned?"

"It does me no good to have my right hand sour with me, does it?"

"It also does you no good to make cracks about my," Mark coughed, "Sexual inexperience."

"That offended you?" Gwyn frowned, "You're not offended when Gilfaethwy does it."

"Gilfaethwy didn't kiss me like you did."

Gwyn just stared at him for a moment, fingers drumming against the curve of his ankle, before realisation crept over his face, "Oh, I see. I see indeed." He tipped his head and leant against Cernunnos, "This would be much easier if you say things to me. Now you have, I'll remember what _not_ to say, since you don't like it."

"And you need to do the same," Mark said with a sigh. He curled his toes against Gwyn's hand, "I'll make a note of it. But first can I get a bath? I smell like fish and dirt."

"Then allow a good bath to be my apology to you," Gwyn said, hand running up from Mark's ankle, over his shin to his knee, "We can even keep it from the rest of the Hunt."

"Mm, Gilfaethwy does tease me enough," Mark said, "He thinks you coddle me."

"I take care of my favourites," Gwyn said, "Just wait until you meet Kieran."


	13. Kieran

It had been a long time since Gwyn had been in Ireland. He didn't feel it was much different from Wales: both were very green; both were very wet; both were very, very old. Their differences, Gwyn thought, lay in their languages and in their accents when speaking English.

Then again, Gwyn's age made all nations blur together in some way or another.

"You ever been to Ireland, March?"

"Once," Mark said, "I was very small."

"With Mam Blackthorn?"

Mark's face was indifferent, "No."

Cernunnos shook his head so his reins jangled. If the stag cared much for Ireland, there was no sign of it. He placed his feet carefully as he walked, no longer following in Du y Moroedd's every step, and Gwyn couldn't help but be reminded of that first lonely ride together across those English hills. Now, Mark looked the part of a Hunter, comfortable in his armour, at home on Cernunnos's back.

"Did you ever hear the story of how the Devil fled from Wales?"

"Some would argue he never left." Gwyn looked at Mark, eyebrow raised, and Mark only shrugged, "I mean, you still live there."

"True," Gwyn said, "Different Devil. A long time ago, at Pontarfynach, a woman was separated from her cow; she was on one side, the cow was on the other. A man came by and, upon seeing the problem, offered to build a bridge but only if he could take the soul of the first living thing that crossed it."

"No, Gwyn, this is just sounding like a story about you," Mark said and there was a smile on his mouth, "You're old; you might have forgotten."

"Maybe, March, maybe. Anyway, the next morning, the woman returns and there is the bridge and the man alongside it and the cow on the other side. He reminds her of her promise of the first soul to cross and she, being the good Christian type, isn't willing to give hers up. So she throws her bread over the bridge and her dog chases after it, therefore being the first soul to cross the bridge." Gwyn paused to watch the sky, looking for the swirl of crows that would tell him they were close, "The Devil was embarrassed at being tricked, and he fled Wales and never looked back."

"Did that have anything to do with why we're here?" Mark asked, "Are you taking me to meet the actual Devil? That would make great dinner conversation. Hi, Jules. You know I actually met Satan?"

Gwyn laughed, "He only has aspects of a devil in him."

The sky darkened as a column of crows rose up from beyond a velvet hill. Gwyn halted to watch them, shielding his eyes from the sun. The sound of their wings roared against the wind and their cawing chilled Gwyn's spine.

"That's why we're here?" Mark asked, sounding suddenly uncertain, "What is it?"

"Sluagh," Gwyn said, "A cousin of ours, some might say. Come now."

Du y Moroedd cleared the hill easily, stopping with a snort at the crest. Below, the sluagh's main body, the parts of itself it had managed to keep solid, was locked in a brawl. The ground was churned and muddy and there was a red splatter across the grass of the hillside. Gwyn caught a glimpse of fighting limbs and biting teeth before the sluagh pressed its opponent to the other, smothering them.

"That's the sluagh?" Mark asked. Gwyn only nodded, "This is what happens when cousins marry."

"Ah, so this is the future of the Nephilim," Gwyn said. He looked at Mark but there was no humour in his face. Gwyn sighed, "Your father was not dragged into one of them. I promise you that."

"You don't know if I was thinking that."

"I was making a brave guess."

The sluagh screamed, a thousand voices all crying out at once, and launched itself into the sky above. It was rushing column of wings and grasping hands and faces that stared with white eyes, all of them combining to form a dark mass that fanned across the sky as an enormous raven. Mark couldn't tear his eyes away as it swelled and wheeled away, leaving the sky clear again.

Gwyn kicked his feet free of his stirrups and leapt from his horse's back. The faery at the foot of the hill was swiping his sleeve across his mouth and spitting, as if trying to remove a foul taste. Gwyn whistled to him and he turned, mouth curving into a black smeared smile.

"Is this your Devil?" Mark asked, nudging Gwyn's back with his foot, "He doesn't look so bad."

"He's one of my favourites," Gwyn said, "I've told you of him before. My devil is Kieran."

Kieran barrelled into him, knocking him back onto the cool, soft grass. He found himself level with Cernunno's hooves, quickly backing away as Mark pulled him back to avoid injuries. Before he could attempt any introductions, Kieran was kissing him; the other man's lips tasted bitter with traces of the sluagh but he fit against Gwyn as perfectly as he always had. There was blood in his hair and his armour was filthy.

"You look no different to how you left," Gwyn said when Kieran broke for air and it was the whole truth. Kieran had a tendency to end up somehow filthy when it came to Gwyn.

He always blamed the rainfall.

"Behold, the faery who can lie," Kieran said with a smile, "I was well groomed when I last saw you."

"I said when you left, not when I last saw you," Gwyn said. He eased Kieran off of him and stood, swiping grass off of his armour. Mark had dismounted and Gwyn reached to pull him in close, arm around Mark's shoulders, and kiss into that blond hair, "I bring my right hand to meet you."

"I thought I…" Kieran trailed off and his eyes narrowed, "That is a Shadowhunter."

"You're quick to jump to conclusions," Mark said stiffly. His hand was cold and dry in Gwyn's. He stood slightly behind Gwyn, ready to bolt if Kieran decided to make use of his daggers, "I haven't been a Shadowhunter in a long time."

The look of chilled anger didn't leave Kieran's eyes, "Vipers are dormant for months before they become a danger."

"Kieran," Gwyn said, warning in his tone, "If you'd like to stay away from Annwn until you learn some respect, the sluagh went west."

First, Kieran looked as if he'd been slapped. Then, that morphed into an unabashed mask of hurt; as Gwyn's favourite, it was rare he was ever spoken to like that. The scrunch of his eyebrows and downturn to his mouth left Gwyn with the same sort of shame he imagined coming from kicking a child. He heard Mark suck in a breath and he wondered if Mark thought he'd gone a step far.

"I don't…he's not…" Kieran stopped his fumbling and ducked his head, carefully banishing that look of hurt, "Expect me back in a month."

He straightened and turned. Gwyn watched him leave with a dry mouth before he huffed, beckoning to Du y Moroedd. Mark stroked Cernunnos's nose and watched Kieran go, his face thoughtful.

"I can fight my own battles," he said, checking Cernunnos's girth, "You didn't need to do that."

"He can't speak of you that way," Gwyn said stiffly, "Prince or no, lover or no, he does not know you so can't speak to you like that."

The ground seemed to groan and then Gwyn's ears were ringing with Kieran's agonised shouts. His heart in his throat, Gwyn abandoned his horse and Mark to go to Kieran's aid, panic thumping in his chest.

A fragment of the sluagh had been broken from the rest and it pinned Kieran down, weight holding him whilst its gleaming black teeth were buried to the gums in Kieran's shoulder. His daggers were sunk to the hilt in the body, trying to push it away, but it was fruitless; the pain of the bite made his arms shake. Long fingers, tipped with harsh nails, pressed into Kieran's face.

Gwyn dug his fingers into the sluagh and it let Kieran go, turning to lash out at Gwyn as he hauled it back. It lurched at him, teeth bared, and he quickly pulled his knife free. He jammed the heavy handle into the sluagh's teeth, feeling a wash of satisfaction as they cracked beneath the blow. The sluagh wailed and reeled back, hands coming up to cover its face. Gwyn gripped the top of its head, nails sinking into the clammy surface of the sluagh's forehead, and dragged its head back to slice across its throat. There sluagh gurgled, a sound like water being sucked down a narrow hole, before it disintegrated in Gwyn's hold, sinking into the ground below; the grass withered and wilted where it had been. Slightly disgusted, he wiped his knife clean on his cloak before turning back to Kieran.

Mark had already reached him and had one hand pressed against the bleeding bite. His fingers were red and slick with blood, made worse as Kieran arched and tried to push him away.

"Get off me," he hissed, and any venom that would have been in the words was lost in the pain from the bite.

"That thing took a chunk out of you," Mark replied, only lifting his head to keep Kieran's bloodied fingers from his eyes. Trails of wet red raked his cheek, "Would you rather bleed to death?"

"Better that than be poisoned by people like you," Kieran said and he looked to Gwyn, "Tell him to let me be."

Gwyn gently pushed Mark's hand away to replace it with his own, "Go and get our things. I have Edern's medicine; bring some of that. We won't leave until tomorrow."

Mark nodded and relief crossed Kieran's face as he left. He was starting to look grey around the edges, reminding Gwyn of how paper discoloured and curled when left exposed for too long.

"You need to trust him," Gwyn said. Kieran groaned and Gwyn wasn't sure if it was from pain or annoyance, "Or at the very least, trust me and my trust in him."

Kieran said nothing. Instead, he watched in silence as Mark returned, Cernunnos and Du y Moroedd in his footsteps and medicine in hand. His face was apprehensive and Gwyn felt fingers curl against his side.

"This will hurt," Gwyn warned as Mark knelt, "More than the bite."

"Then if it doesn't work, death will be a release," Kieran said and his smile was grim, "Do it, Shadowhunter, and make it quick."

Gwyn lifted his hand away. The bite was a mess of mangled skin and muscle, of gleaming red and the slow smell of a sluagh's infection. Mark, unfamiliar with a sluagh and what they could do, had already gone pale. He steadied his hand as he popped the cork on the glass bottle.

"Deep breath, Kieran," Gwyn whispered, leaning to brush a kiss against Kieran's forehead, "Deep breath and keep breathing." He nodded to Mark, who very slowly tipped the contents of the bottle onto the wound.

Kieran's scream was worse than any sound the sluagh could dream of making.

* * *

"Have we met before?"

Mark flinched at the voice. Kieran sounded hoarse and scratchy. He lay stretched out over Gwyn's cloak at Mark's side, Mark's cloak layered over him for warmth. Gwyn had pulled his armour off earlier, leaving him mostly bare, some bandages wrapped firmly around his upper torso. He struggled to sit and the thin light of the moon gleamed on the bare skin of his chest. Mark forced himself to look away.

"I don't think so," he said.

"I know your face," Kieran said, and he pulled Mark's cloak up past his waist; the hem shifted to reveal a slim line of his thigh, "Yours is not one I expect on a Shadowhunter."

"You might have known my mother."

"Perhaps. Where is Gwyn?"

"Over there," Mark said and he pointed out the figure of Gwyn atop the hill, "Keeping an eye out. He doesn't want anything else chewing on you."

Kieran touched the bandages, "It has never happened to me before."

"Never been bitten? Ever?"

"Not by sluagh," Kieran said, "I think I'd remember that." He groaned and lay back again, "I am so tired."

He curled on his side, leaning on his good shoulder, hands clasped near his chest. He watched Mark with guarded eyes, assessing him; Mark could see the white edge of his teeth at his lower lip. Mark watched him back, head tipped slightly.

"Do you always stare so much?" he asked.

"I apologise for comparing you to a viper," Kieran said, "It was…inappropriate."

"Oh, you think?"

"Shadowhunters have proven themselves dangerous and untrustworthy for centuries. Why would I think you are any different?"

"Well, the eye might have given me away. And the armour. And the bow. And the fact that I was with Gwyn."

Kieran gritted his teeth, "Your point is made."

His eyes closed again and Mark took the moment to slip away. Cernunnos watched with one eye as Mark shook out his saddle cloth, shaking all the loose hair from its underside. He reached out to scratch the sweet spot under Cernunnos's jaw and the stag moaned.

"It will smell like you," he said, reaching up to stroke Cernunnos's nose, "But he'll be warmer, yes?"

Cernunnos blew a warm breath over his hand before settling back to sleep. Mark tossed the blanket over his shoulder and his nose and throat filled with Cernunnos's dusty scent. He returned to Kieran and Gwyn was already there, sat next to him and running calloused fingers through his dark hair.

"Kind of you," he said as Mark gently draped the saddle cloth over the cloak covering Kieran, "After he spoke to you the way he did."

"He apologised," Mark said, "We're friends now."

"Do not get ahead of yourself, Nephilim," Kieran said.

"Mark. My name is Mark."

Kieran's smile was faint but his attention was back on Gwyn, "If my exile stands, I need to leave. Where are my clothes?"

"I think it would be a very bad decision for you to chase after it again after what it did to you," Gwyn said, "You can barely move. You leave, I lose a decent Hunter."

"You have no room to advise anyone on bad decisions."

"Ah, Kieran, you must know all of my decisions are good ones."

"Seelie Queen," Kieran and Mark spoke in unison and it earned Mark an odd look of approval from Kieran. Gwyn sighed.

"I should never have introduced you two," he muttered, which made Kieran laugh, a slightly pained sound.

"Another bad decision?" Mark asked, and he wanted to lean over to kiss Gwyn but Kieran's presence felt like a wall between them.

"His record is against him," Kieran said and he stretched on his back to watch clouds cover the stars, "You, Shadowhunter. Mark. I think I'd like to know you better."

"Well," Mark said, and his eyes met Gwyn's, "When you stop being grounded, you'll have more than enough time." He twisted a thick blade of grass around one of his arrows, "The Hunt's a forever deal."

* * *

**A/N. And so this dog and pony show comes to an end. I thought it would be best to end it well before Lady Midnight comes out and Kieran seems like a good note to end it on. Sorry it got a little waffley and sidetracked along the way ;)**


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